


Uncle Boris' Kitchen (Story)

by Avery11



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Gen, MFU50 MiniBang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-02
Updated: 2014-10-02
Packaged: 2018-02-19 12:32:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2388332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avery11/pseuds/Avery11
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Napoleon has been drugged by THRUSH, and is experiencing the excruciating pain  of withdrawal. THRUSH is closing in on their position, and will arrive by morning. To distract his mind from the pain, Napoleon asks Illya to tell him something about his life back in the USSR. Illya reluctantly obliges. Thus begins the story of Illya's Uncle Boris, and the marvelous night that changed his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Uncle Boris' Kitchen (Story)

**Link to Art:**  http://archiveofourown.org/works/2390555

( ***Author's Notes** : Many, many thanks to Open_Channel_D for her help with Russian cultural details. She totally rocks! And much gratitude to Nataliya, who embraced this story, and created a wonderful work of art to showcase it. A thousand thank you's!

 **An explanation of names:** It's pretty much agreed among the cousins that “Illya Nickovetch” is not a correctly spelled Russian name. It must have been spelled differently when he lived in the USSR, but was inadvertently changed prior to his arrival at UNCLE – perhaps during transliteration from the Cyrillic to English alphabet. Since parts of this story are set pre-UNCLE, Illya is referred to in those sections as “Ilya Nikolayevich.” In the UNCLE-era sections, he remains “Illya.” )

 

**St Jude's Bay, Cape Breton Island, Canada, 1965**

 

“Everything...s-so dark out there...” Napoleon rasped.

At the sound of his partner's voice, Illya turned away from the window, letting the venetian blinds fall. “It is after midnight. You managed to sleep for nearly two hours.”

“Oh, well that ex – ex-plains it.” He tried to sit up; he made it as far as his elbows. “Any s-sign of...our pursuers?”

“No, but with the storm ending, they will not be far behind.”

Napoleon nodded, but even that small movement was too much for him. He sank back onto the mattress. “We should make...a run for it.”

“Not until the drugs are out of your system.”

“...too late by then.”

“We will have to take that chance.”

“They'll find us...”

“We are not moving. That's final.”

“I...thought I was...senior agent...?”

“Should I be impressed by the title?”

“I s-swear, Illya, you are without a doubt...stubbornest Ru – Russ – !” Napoleon cried out as another wave of agony exploded inside his chest. It was like being electrocuted. Worse. Burned alive. His body arched, fingers clawing helplessly at the bedsheets. “Oh, Jesus!”

Illya was at his side in an instant. “Shh. It will be over soon. Try to ride the pain out.”

“Easier – s-said than d-done.”

“I know.” Illya held him in his arms, rocking him while he sobbed and swore, and cried out to a god the Russian was certain did not exist. When it was finally over, Illya dipped a washcloth into the basin of cool water, and gently wiped down his partner's brow and chest. He could feel the exhausted muscles spasm under his touch. “Better?”

The senior agent nodded. “H-how long be- before –?”

“ – the drug wears off?” Illya hesitated. “A few more hours, I should think.” In truth, the stuff General Nakamura had injected into Napoleon's bloodstream baffled him. He knew it attacked the central nervous system, stimulating the body's pain receptors, and that it triggered a reaction in the amygdala of the brain, spiking adrenaline production and sending the body's fear response into overdrive, but beyond that, he was stumped. The drug's chemical composition made no sense to him, and its potency and duration were beyond anything he had seen before. It had been in Napoleon's system for over twenty-four hours, and its effects showed no sign of diminishing.

He eased his partner back down under the covers. “Try to sleep. I will keep watch.”

“Can't s-sleep. Hurts. Talk to me. Please.”

Illya sighed. “Very well. What shall we talk about? That new computer technician with the remarkable – intellect? Or if you prefer, I could bore you with the recent technical modifications I have made to UNCLE's antiquated communicators.”

That brought the ghost of a smile. “Spare me.”

“What then?”

“I don't know. Tell me a s-story.”

“A story? What kind? The Brothers Grimm? _Lysistrata? War and Peace_?”

“Don't c-care. Anything. Just – n-need to hear your – v-voice –” He coughed, a wet, wheezing rattle that stole his breath away.

“Shh.” Illya quietly wiped the spittle from his mouth. It was tinged with blood. _Chyort! If Nakamura's drug had caused internal damage –_

“Tell me...s-omething about your life in the Soviet Union,” Napoleon's voice was barely audible, a strangled whisper.

“My life?”

“Before UNCLE. Something...not in your f-file.”

Illya's lips twitched. “There is nothing in my file. It was totally redacted by my superiors at the KGB.”

“I know. It w-was...riveting reading...for about five s-seconds....”

“Are you sure you wouldn't prefer a nice comedy? I can recite _The Frogs_ in Greek.”

“Come on...Illya. Just this once. Tell m-me s-something...personal about yourself. It'll help...pass...time.”

The Russian heaved a great sigh. “If you insist.” He thought for a moment. “Have I ever told you about my Uncle Boris ?”

“Sounds like...s-start of...bad joke...”

“No, I really do have an Uncle Boris. He lives in Moscow.”

“Didn't know you had any relatives...left...”

“Until I met him, I didn't know, either. Boris was my mother's brother.”

“Tell...me m-more...about this uncle of y-yours...”

“Very well.” Illya settled back in his chair, resurrecting the memory. The years fell away. “I was sixteen, living in Moscow then, completing my final year of training at an elite government boarding school.”

“R-Red Banner...Institute...?”

Illya nodded. “Run by the KGB to train spies...”

*/*/*/

**Moscow, Spring, 1954**

 

Ilya and his classmates filed out the iron doors under the watchful eye of their instructor, a pinch-faced officer with a narrow, dyspeptic air. Ilya positioned himself near the center of the file – eyes forward, expression bland, no sudden moves to attract attention – and focused on blending in with the other cadets. It was a skill he had practiced much of late. A soft rain had begun to fall, leaving the stone walls of the school glistening, and soaking into the dirt path on which he stood.

“Goodbye, Cadet Leonov,” the instructor intoned in a voice as cold and passionless as his eyes. “Goodbye, Cadet Kuryakin. Goodbye, Cadet Rodchenko...”

“Goodbye, Tovarish Major,” each student answered dutifully, their heads dipping in identical bows of respect.

Ilya chomped at the bit, desperate to be away from the prying eyes and smothering atmosphere of the KGB school, but he reminded himself not to rush – haste attracted unwanted attention. He made a conscious effort to slow his pace.

“A moment, Cadet Kuryakin.”

He turned, heart hammering in his chest. He affected an air of calm attention, but beneath the amiable façade his jaw clenched. “Yes, Tovarish Major?”

“You seem to be in a hurry this afternoon.”

“I am anxious to begin studying for Monday's Chemistry examination,” he lied readily. “Tovarish Liutenant Lukov has warned it will be challenging.”

“I see.”

Sharp eyes stared down at Ilya from the sheltered entryway. He strove to keep his breathing even, his demeanor relaxed and attentive. It was raining harder now. He could feel the mud seeping into his shoes.

“Your diligence is commendable, Cadet Kuryakin,” the Major continued. His oily voice raised the hackles on Ilya's neck. “You have shown remarkable promise during your time with us. You have excelled, not only academically, but in our other, more – discreet – forms of training as well.”

“Thank you, Tovarish Major.”

“How old are you now?”

“Sixteen this past September, Tovarish Major.” _As you know perfectly well._

“Hmm. Young. Still –” He stared down his hawk nose at the young man.

Ilya forced himself not to flinch under the scrutiny. Weakness was an invitation to further probing where the Tovarish Major was concerned. He adopted an expression of patient interest. He could hear the blood rushing in his ears.

“You have done well, Cadet Kuryakin. Despite our earlier concerns, you have exceeded our expectations.”

He supressed a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Tovarish Major.”

“We took a chance, with you, you know – admitting the child of a known subversive to our school. Such exceptions are rarely made.”

“Yes, Tovarish Major.”

“Your mother brought shame upon your family. She was an enemy of the State. You have been given a rare opportunity to atone for her aberrant behavior through glorious service to the Soviet Collective.”

An image, long buried, flashed before his eyes – his mother, his beautiful, terrified mother, screaming as the NKVD broke down their door. Hands tearing him from her arms. The crack of a pistol. _Mama! Mama!_

Fresh rage bubbled up from somewhere deep in his heart, but he forced it down. “Thank you for the opportunity, Tovarish Major.”

“It is reassuring to know that our confidence in you was not misplaced.”

A crack of thunder drowned out the necessity of a reply. It shook the ground, sending ripples across the surface of the puddles at Ilya's feet. Abruptly the skies opened, and a torrent of icy rain came pouring down. He was soaked to the skin in a matter of seconds. The downpour became a deluge; he could feel goosebumps popping up beneath the coarse wool of his uniform. His blond hair plastered itself to his scalp. Droplets of icy water rolled down his bangs, dripping into his eyes.

The Major watched Ilya's discomfort, arms crossed, smug satisfaction written across his narrow face. Ilya longed to shove that face into the mud.

He steeled himself, and spoke around a mouthful of rain. “I will not disappoint you, Tovarish Major.”

“I'm certain you won't.” And with that, the odious little man was gone. The iron door closed behind him with a muffled thud. Ilya heard the locks slide into place, pictured the complex alarm system being set. He turned, shoes squelching, and made his way down the dirt path to the main gate, wondering how the noble ideals espoused by Vladimir Lenin – ideals in which he believed implicitly – came to be so corrupted in the Tovarish Major.

The guard called to him from the gatehouse. “Where is your umbrella, Cadet Kuryakin?”

Ilya forced a smile. “Who needs an umbrella? It's only rain after all.” It was never a bad time to cultivate the good will of the guards.

“Only rain? It's a deluge. You'll catch your death.”

“I have the whole weekend to dry off.”

“Not if it keeps raining like this, you won't.”

He laughed as he passed through the gate, leaving the guard shaking his head at the foolishness of the young. Turning the corner onto Dimitrovski Street, he saw that several of his classmates were waiting for him beneath the awning of the local butcher shop.

“You're soaking wet!” gasped Evgeny, his closest friend, and the youngest member of the group.

Ilya's lips twitched. “Yes, Zhenya, I had noticed the damp feeling.”

“We were concerned about you.” Yuri, the worrier, his nails perpetually bitten to the quick. “Is everything alright? You're not in trouble, are you?”

“No, no. Everything is fine, Yura.” Yuri, from the Caucasus, selected by the KGB for his physical beauty. Illya wondered if the gentle young man knew what sort of life awaited him after graduation.

“We saw you talking to the Tovarish Major.” Viktor Leonov, the eldest. Ambitious son of a high-ranking Party official. “What did he want?”

Ilya shrugged. “Merely to discuss my grades.”

Viktor's face was wreathed in skepticism. “You were with him a long time – surely you must have talked about more than grades. What sort of questions did he ask?”

“No questions. The Tovarish Major merely wanted to inform me that I am doing well in my studies this term.”

“Oh.” Viktor seemed disappointed by the news.

 _Careful,_ Ilya thought. _That one would sell his own parents for a bowl of borscht._

Evgeny could barely contain his excitement. “Never mind school, Illya! We're going to the cinema tonight! _The Cranes Are Flying_ is playing!”

“Again? Didn't you see that one already?”

“Four times,” Evgeny replied sheepishly, “but it's a _very_ good movie. Want to come with us?”

Ilya shook his head. “I'm headed to the library to study.”

“Again? Weren't you there yesterday?”

He smiled. “It's a _very_ good library.”

“Always with your nose in a book.” Viktor shook his head. “You need to get out more. Have some fun. Meet girls.”

“Another time, perhaps.”

“You'll have the whole weekend to study. Come with us.”

“Thank you, no.”

Viktor shrugged. “Suit yourself, but come Monday morning, you'll be sorry you missed all the fun.”

Ilya waited until the group, laughing and jostling one another, disappeared around the corner. When he was certain they were gone, he turned and walked quickly away in the opposite direction...

*/*/*/

Illya paused to refill his coffee cup from the pot on the stove. He noticed the senior agent's hazel eyes following him across the room.

“Is it raining?” Napoleon whispered. “I can hear...the rain. Or was that in your story?”

“It is the sound of the waves,” Illya replied gently. “The tide is coming in. We are in a cottage on the northern shore of Cape Breton Island. St. Jude's Bay. Remember?”

“Oh, right... guess I forgot for a s-second...”

Napoleon's face was pinched with pain. Illya thought he looked even paler than when they had first arrived. “You should be in hospital.”

The senior agent shook his head. “THRUSH...on our tail. Too many innocent people...m-might get hurt...

Illya bit back a reply. Consideration for the safety of innocents was of primary importance, but that didn't make the situation any easier to accept. “Here. Drink this.” He lifted a glass of water to Napoleon's lips.

“Not...thirsty...”

“It will help to flush out the toxins.” _I hope._

Napoleon allowed Illya to lift his head. He drank obediently.

“We can finish the story later if you're tired.”

“No...want to hear m-more. When do we g-get to...Uncle Boris?”

Illya smiled to cover his concern. “Don't Americans know it is bad luck to rush the storyteller?”

“Oh, well, by all means, take your t-time then. I'm...not going anywhere...”

*/*/*/

The Lenin State Library was an elegant reminder of a bygone age. Situated atop a hill at the corner of Mokhovaya Street, the building, with its tall Corinthian pillars, curved staircase and ornate green dome, stood out like an aging dowager beside its newer, sleeker neighbors. Once the home of a wealthy military officer, the mansion's white stone façade had been left untouched by the October Revolution, but the interior of the building had been adapted to meet the more austere needs of the Soviet era. Now its vast array of rooms housed one of the finest collections of literature and reference materials in the world.

Ilya climbed the staircase to the building's entrance, and stepped casually across the threshold. He showed his library card to the elderly matron at the desk.

“Back again so soon, Comrade Kuryakin?” The matron shook her head. “I think you would live in the stacks if they let you.”

“I am often tempted.”

She passed the guest book to him, and he signed the page with a flourish.

“I see it's decided to start raining again.” She clucked her tongue at his bedraggled appearance.

“I'll say. It's pouring buckets out there, and of course the trolleys were full, so I had to walk. I got caught in the worst of it.” Ilya shivered in his wet clothes.

She smiled. “The heat isn't working so well on the main floor today. It's warmer upstairs.”

“Still, you're lucky to be indoors on an afternoon like this.”

“And grateful to be sitting down, I can tell you. My bunions are killing me.”

“Bunions? You poor thing.” He thought for a moment. “Have you tried oil of clove for the pain?”

“Why would I do that?” the matron scowled. “I have bunions, Comrade, not a toothache.”

“My grandmother used oil of clove on her bunions all the time. She said it felt so good, it was like making love to them.”

The old woman's expression brightened. “Really? Well, I'll try anything to ease this pain.”

They exchanged a few more pleasantries before saying their goodbyes. Ilya headed up the wide marble staircase to the Reading Room, satisfied that there would be tangible evidence of his presence in the building, along with a witness who remembered him, should anyone care to investigate. He paused outside the door, and removed his uniform jacket and cap. The KGB insignia on the lapel made people nervous, and would garner unwelcome attention. He folded the jacket with care, and stowed the bundle away in his briefcase. Satisfied with his non-descript appearance, he opened the door.

The Reading Room was always crowded, but today it was packed to the rafters with people seeking refuge from the foul weather. The press of bodies warmed the space, for which Ilya was manifestly grateful. He crossed the dimly lit room, footsteps echoing on the parquet floor, and claimed the single remaining desk. Its proximity to the drafty basement staircase suited his needs perfectly. He slipped into the seat, placed one of his Chemistry textbooks on the desk, and turned on the green-domed reading lamp. Silence descended, broken only by the soft rustle of turning pages and the occasional phlegmy clearing of throats.

To an outside observer, Ilya appeared to be just another student engrossed in his studies. In reality, he was carefully scanning the room, assessing the occupants with a practiced eye. KGB spies were everywhere in these post-Stalinist times of transition. Just the other day, a father of two had been arrested for making a rude joke about Premier Khruschev's upcoming visit with Mao Tse Tung.

After thirty minutes, Ilya switched off the desk lamp, retrieved his briefcase from under the desk, and rose with a sigh. He strolled toward the basement stairs, pulling a cigarette from the pack he had bought earlier in the week. No one paid him the slightest bit of attention. He was invisible, a weary student heading downstairs for a smoke. He descended the black metal staircase, humming the chorus to Dunayevsky's _Wide Is My Motherland_.

As he had anticipated, the basement was deserted. It was too cold and damp downstairs to attract much use on this rainy afternoon. Ilya flushed the cigarette down the toilet in the Men's Room, pulled a windbreaker from his briefcase and put it on. He stuffed his blond hair under a knit cap. Thus prepared for the next phase of his journey, he slipped out the Library's service entrance, and crossed Mokhovaya Street to the Metro station.

He paid his fare at the kiosk, and arrived at the platform just as the Red Line train was pulling into the station. The evening rush hour would be starting soon, but for now the number of travelers was small. Ilya waited until the last possible moment, and stepped onto the third car from the end. He sat down gratefully. Moments later, a recorded voice announced the closing of the doors, and the train began to move.

A pensioner – a veteran of the First World War, if the medals on his coat were any indication – was his only company. The old gentleman slumped against the window, snoring loudly, his white bristle of a moustache fluttering with each breath. He was oblivious to Ilya's presence. Ilya closed his eyes, and granted himself the luxury of a five-minute nap.

When he departed the train several stops later, the elderly pensioner was still sleeping. Ilya reversed the lining of his windbreaker and removed the knit cap. He added a pair of ugly, hornrimmed glasses and a thin black necktie to his disguise.

People were beginning to leave work, and the streets were growing crowded. Ilya blended into the throng of factory workers, and began a dizzying series of random maneuvers across the city, using a succession of public transports – trolleys, trams and an occasional city bus. The knit cap appeared and disappeared at intervals, as did the glasses, necktie and windbreaker. At one point, he affected a limp, and a kindly woman helped him to descend the steps of the tram while the conductor grumbled about the delay.

He strolled past kiosks selling evening newspapers, and vending machines offering carbonated beverages and _pirozhki_. He caught a crowded trolley that took him past the Park Kultury and the luxurious GUM Department store. Near Smolenskaya Street, he saw a line of women, some holding infants, waiting outside a store rumored to be selling sausages. He got off and walked again.

He crossed the bridge over the Moskva River, and caught yet another trolley, this one taking him into the outlying sectors of the city, toward Noviye Cheromushki...

*/*/*/

“Illya?”

“Yes, Napoleon?”

“Does Headquarters know we're h-here?”

Illya had been dreading the question. “I have informed UNCLE's Montreal office of our situation,” he answered carefully, “and requested an emergency extraction. No doubt, they have been delayed by the storm, but reinforcements should be arriving at any – ”

“Illya.”

He stopped.

“Partners shouldn't lie to one another,” Napoleon admonished quietly.

Illya sighed. “No.”

“No one's coming, are they?”

“There has been no reply. I suspect that the storm is disrupting communications in the area, preventing them from receiving my messages.”

“So...we're on our own.”

“It would seem so. THRUSH will have tracked us to the island by now, but they will wait until the weather clears to mount their attack. I've set up traps along the perimeter of the cottage. It may delay them for awhile, but –”

“– but basically we're screwed.” Napoleon lay back; his eyes drifted shut. “I'd like to hear...rest of...story now, if you don't mind. I'm...dying...to know how it turns out.”

Illya rubbed his weary eyes, wishing he could close them, if only for a moment. He reclaimed the rocking chair, clutching his mug of bitter black coffee. “Where was I? Ah, yes. Noviye Cheromushki...”

*/*/*/

...on the outskirts of the city, was Nikita Khruschev's answer to the housing shortage under which Muscovites had been living since before the War. In the months following Stalin's death, a succession of five-story apartment buildings rose with astonishing speed in response to Khruschev's plan to modernize the city. Noviye Cheromushki was the first of these.

In the new “khruschevkas,” as the developments came to be known, families no longer had to share kitchens and bathrooms with dozens of strangers in an overcrowded communal space. Instead, each family was assigned an apartment of their own, with a private toilet and a tiny kitchen in which to prepare meals. The pre-fabricated concrete construction was cheap, the work often slipshod, and the apartments were barely fifty square meters in size, but no Muscovite in his right mind cared. For the first time in memory, families had privacy.

Ilya stared up at the grey ediface of Building 4, where his Uncle Boris lived. It was a stark environment – ten identical grey buildings erected on a vacant lot, the buildings bisected by a wide, empty avenue where weeds grew in the median. An attempt had been made to plant a few spindly saplings, and there was a small pool in the center of the development where the children could wade, but that was all.

 _And yet,_ Ilya thought, _privacy was everything._ He entered the building, and climbed the five flights of stairs to his uncle's door. He knocked softly, mindful of the paper-thin walls. The door opened.

“Ilyusha! Come in, come in!” Uncle Boris' wide frame all but filled the door. “We're just sitting down to supper.”

Ilya stepped across the threshold, and was instantly enveloped in the sounds and smells of a real home. Aunt Yuliya stood at the kitchen's tiny stove, cooking cabbage and potatoes for the crowd that would be coming. Their twelve-year-old daughter Irina – his cousin! – was busy setting out platters of mushrooms and pickled herring. The next-door neighbor, a cheerful woman named Polina, retrieved bottles of vodka from the freezer on the balcony. Her husband Max and their sons arranged the chairs around the table. Tea bubbled noisily in a brass samovar on the kitchen counter.

“We thought you weren't going to come,” Uncle Boris said, wrapping Ilya in his beefy arms.

“I – I wasn't sure I wanted to.”

“Of course. It's a big decision.” He hesitated. “You didn't tell anyone about our little – supper?”

“No.”

“And you're certain you weren't followed?”

Ilya snorted. “I doubt anyone could follow the trail I left.”

“Good. Good.”

Another knock at the door. “I got to get that. Make yourself at home.” Boris strode away.

He sat down at the kitchen table, and accepted a glass of vodka from his aunt. _“Nazdarovy'e._ ” He drank it down, and felt the liquor burn a crisp, clean path down his throat.

Cousin Irina handed him a plate piled high with cabbage and herring. “Don't be afraid to ask for more. We made plenty.”

Over the next half hour, Uncle Boris answered the door a dozen times. People trickled in, individuals, couples, and sometimes entire families. They squeezed into the tiny kitchen, perching themselves wherever they could find a bit of unoccupied space, until Ilya was sure the room would burst at the seams. Boris kept their glasses filled, and Aunt Yuliya made certain there was plenty of food for the growing crowd. The smell of pickled fish permeated the air.

People talked quietly, in deference to the thin walls, but it was _what_ they talked about that Ilya found so remarkable. In _sotto voce_ , they debated the philosophies of Lenin and the poetry of Walt Whitman; the music of Prokofiev, and the morality of Stalin's Great Purge. Books were passed back and forth. _Lady Chatterly's Lover. The Kingdom of God. 1984. The Master And Margarita_.

Someone thrust a thin volume into Ilya's hand. “Boris says you like to read. Bring it back when you're done.”

Illya looked down. _The Metamorphosis,_ by Franz Kafka. “Thank you,” he turned to say, but the man had moved away.

“Is Galina coming tonight?” someone asked.

“Right here!” A pretty young woman in a nurse's uniform edged her way through the crowd. In her hands, she carried a stack of used x-ray films. Ilya could see the silhouette of a ribcage on the top exposure. “I got lucky,” she declared proudly. “I was on night duty last week, and I caught the janitor throwing all these old films into the trash bin.”

Boris accepted the stack with a grin. “There must be a dozen exposures here! Good work, Galina.” He turned to the guests. “Looks like it's time to make some bone music!”

His announcement was met with enthusiastic applause. A flurry of activity ensued. The table was cleared of food and beverages, and a Victrola set up next to a second turntable which, in turn, was connected to an odd-looking stylus.

Illya watched, fascinated. _A wax cutter_. “Ingenious, but what does it do?”

“Patience, Ilyusha. You'll see in a minute.”

People gathered around, shushing one another and crowding in to watch.

Ilya frowned. “But what does it _do_? And what is 'bone music?'”

“Shh.” Boris turned to his guests. “So, what's it to be tonight? I can offer you a ribcage and a pair of lungs, an enlarged heart, or perhaps a fractured ulna.”

His question was met with good-natured laughter. “The lungs,” someone called out, “because it takes lots of air to sing with a noose around your neck.”

More laughter.

“The lungs, it is.” He donned his spectacles, and squinted to read the scrawl at the bottom of the first x-ray. “Ladies and Gentlemen! Here we have the diseased lungs of the late Anatoly Astakhov. We lament his passing, and thank him for his donation.” He took a scissors, and cut around the edges of the film, turning the square exposure into a circle the size of a hat brim. Someone handed him a cigarette; he used it to burn a small hole in the center of the film.

Ilya began to see. “It looks like a record.”

Boris nodded. “Western music is forbidden by the Gostelradio. American jazz, boogie woogie, rock and roll. Even some of our own composers are forbidden. Banned recordings are occasionally smuggled in, but there are never enough copies to go around. So we make more. We record them on these old x-rays. See? Bone music.” He placed the disc onto the wax cutter's jury-rigged turntable.

“Take your time, Boris,” someone called out. “We'll all share the same firing squad in the end.”

More laughter.

“Quiet, everyone. We want to make sure the recording comes out nice and clear.”

Silence descended. Boris touched the stylus to the x-ray. The record on the Victrola began to play.

The wild, uncensored wail of a trumpet filled the air, red-hot, piercing and plaintive. A piano tinkled a sophisticated counterpoint in the upper octaves of the keyboard, a rapid-fire filigree of musical rain. Snare drums brushed a syncopated beat.

“What _is_ that?” Ilya whispered.

“You kidding?” the man on his right replied. “ That's Miles Davis!”

“Who?”

“Miles Davis.” A pause. “Haven't you ever heard jazz before?”

He shook his head.

The man grinned. “Then you're in for a treat tonight!”

“Shhh!”

Illya edged closer. The music was mesmerizing, astonishing, like nothing he had heard before. It was alien to his classically trained ear – exotic chords laced with almost painful harmonic tension, and rhythms that slipped in and out of meter, twisting the music into incomprehensible new forms. The soaring trumpet line rose above the fray, transcending limitation and breath. It seemed to go on forever. It was magical. Marvelous. It was –

_Free._

He listened like a starving man, unaware of Uncle Boris quietly unplugging the telephone, or Aunt Yuliya turning on the kitchen faucet to mask the sound of the music. He listened, spellbound, while the stylus copied the virtuoso performance of Miles Davis onto Mr. Astakhov's diseased lungs.

The song ended, and the guests exhaled a collective sigh of pleasure. Ilya looked about in a daze. He felt as though time had stopped in this tiny room, only to begin again in an exciting new universe.

Uncle Boris examined the imprint the stylus had made on the x-ray, and nodded his satisfaction. “Music cannot exist in a vacuum, Ilyusha. The recordings we make tonight will be passed on – shared with music lovers in other kitchens, in other khruschevkas all over Moscow. Beauty cannot be silenced.”

There was a brief lull while plates were refilled and drinks refreshed. The water continued to run in the kitchen sink, and the telephone remained unplugged.

Boris put another record on the Victrola, and selected another x-ray for the turntable, this one a fractured skull. “Ladies and Gentlemen, may I present the remarkable Miss Peggy Lee singing _Black Coffee.”_

Illya watched the image of a skull spin eerily on the turntable. He wondered how the bootlegged record had been smuggled in, and who would receive the bone music copy they created here tonight. He thought about the irony of a dead man's skull becoming the repository for the life of a song. And then he stopped thinking at all, because Peggy Lee's smoke-tinged contralto was washing over him, a siren song that tugged at his heart and wrapped him in its sad sensuality. Around him, the guests fell silent.

“ _I'm feelin' mighty lonesome,_

_Haven't slept a wink,_

_I walk the floor and watch the door_

_And in between I drink_

_Black coffee...”_

_So characteristically Russian_ , _the sadness_ , Ilya thought. _This American sings with a Russian soul_. Or perhaps there was something universal about sorrow, something that transcended borders and ideologies. Their shared sadness was a bridge...

An old woman began to cry. Ilya put his arm around her, comforting her unnamed grief. “Shh, little mother. Shh.”

The song ended, and a piece of Ilya's heart broke. He longed to hear the song again.

“Ilyusha.”

He looked across the room, saw Boris waiting by the door, holding his briefcase. “Time to go now,” his uncle said. “You don't want to miss curfew.” He held up a hand, forestalling Ilya's protest. “I know you want to stay, but it's not safe for you, or for any of us.”

Ilya understood. He could not afford to be caught out after curfew. There would be too many questions, questions he could not answer. He took the briefcase from his uncle.

Boris enfolded him in his massive arms, a bone-crushing embrace. “We'll have another evening together soon, Ilyusha. I promise. I'll send your cousin to the Library with the date and time.”

“Thank you, Uncle,” he said, “for inviting me.”

Boris' eyes grew bright. “You're my sister's boy,” he said, “Annushka's child, brought back to us. We're family.”

Ilya slipped quietly from the apartment. He descended the stairs, and made his way down the wide, deserted avenue to the trolley stop. A trolley was just pulling in. He paid his fare, and took a seat near the rear door. The trolley pulled away, heading northward, toward Ilya's school – toward the place where he lived, and ate, and slept, but would never again call home.

*/*/*/

The sky was beginning to lighten to the east of St. Jude's Bay, a dull gray dawn that signaled the end of the storm, and the beginning of a new day. Illya could hear the seagulls squalling as they scavenged the beach for morsels washed up by the previous evening's high tide. A thick fog had rolled in in the early hours of the morning, enshrouding the landscape in an impenetrable anonymity.

Napoleon had survived the night. The senior agent had suffered two more seizures, the last one around three AM, but he had been sleeping peacefully ever since. His breathing was deep and regular, and his color was better, which Illya took for a good sign.

His relief was short lived, however. The sound of helicopters drifted toward them from the beach. Illya listened to the sound. Not the Sikorsky S-62's UNCLE used. The pitch of the rotors was too low.

“Napoleon, wake up.”

Hazel eyes opened, muddled with sleep. “What...time...?”

“A little after six. THRUSH has arrived.”

Napoleon struggled to a sitting position. The elbows held this time. “Prompt as always. Haven't they ever heard of being 'fashionably late?'”

“Apparently not.” He studied his partner with careful concern. “How are you feeling?”

“Better. Ready to teach our feathered friends a lesson in etiquette.” He swung his legs to the floor, and lurched as the room began to spin.

“Napoleon!”

“I'm okay. Just shaky is all.” He waited until the room stopped spinning, and then retrieved his weapon from the nightstand. He checked to see that the clip was full. “My legs are still a trifle unsteady, Illya. Help me over to the window, will you?”

“Are you certain you're well enough?”

“Positive. I'm anxious to thank General Nakamura for the honor of being his lab rat.”

“Stubborn American.” Illya threw an arm under his partner's shoulder, and together they made it to the chair by the window. He peeked through the slatted blinds. “It is thicker than pea soup out there. Perfect cover for their approach.”

“Looks like THRUSH is getting all the good luck on this mission.” Napoleon drew a jittery breath. “Any idea which way they'll come?”

“From the north. They know you are injured and cannot run, so they will not waste time scaling down the cliffs behind the cottage.”

“That's something in our favor, at least. A single front will be easier to defend.”

“Define 'easier.'”

There was really no answer for that. “How much ammo have you got?”

A pause. “Two full clips. You?”

“Just one.” A sigh. “Every shot has to count.”

“ _Da.”_

Napoleon noted his partner's unconscious lapse into Russian. A nervous tell. “Well, at least we're in the right place.”

“The right place?”

“St. Jude's Bay. Saint Jude is the patron saint of lost causes.”

“Ah.” Illya's lips twitched. “You would know that.”

Just then, a loud explosion rocked the little cottage, shaking the mirror over the dresser and rattling the window panes.

“What the hell was that?”

“A gift for our feathered friends,” Illya replied, looking rather pleased with himself. “I rigged the perimeter of the cottage with C4. ”

“Well, well. You're just full of surprises, aren't you?”

“I try.”

A second explosion followed on the heels of the first. It shook the walls, and knocked over a porcelain figurine of a shepherdess on the night table. It fell to the floor, shattering to pieces.

“Impressive. How many charges did you set?”

“Three.”

“Three on each side?”

“No. Three – altogether.”

“Oh.”

Illya shrugged. “It was all the C4 I had left.”

Another explosion rocked the cottage, this one much closer than the first two.

“That was the last charge. They will be here soon.” He peered out into the fog, his expression grim.

A sudden flurry of gunfire, and then silence. They listened to the clock on the wall ticking away the seconds.

Napoleon risked a glance through the blinds. “Nothing's moving out there. Where the hell are they?”

“Napoleon –”

“Hmm?”

“Who were they shooting at?”

"What?"

"If we are in here -?"

Comprehension dawned. “D'you suppose the cavalry's arrived?”

“You watch too many movies, Napoleon. More likely, some of the local fishermen stumbled into THRUSH's crosshairs.”

It was clear that the thought horrified Napoleon. “Illya –”

“I know.” He reached for the doorknob. “Cover me.”

“Careful.”

“Keep your head down.” He opened the door –

– and stumbled into the surprised arms of a middle-aged officer in a red serge coat and black jodhpurs. A flat-brimmed stetson was perched jauntily upon on his head. “ _Pardonnez moi,”_ the man said in thickly accented French. “Would you know where I might find _les Monsieurs_ Zolo eh Kyrie-kin?”

Illya grinned. “Not the cavalry, Napoleon – the Mounties!”

“We prefer 'Royal Canadian Mounted Police' zees days, _monsieur_. Detective Inspector Geraud Latour, Nova Scotia Division, _à votre service_.” He gave a crisp salute.

Illya held out his hand. “I am Illya Kuryakin.”

“Napoleon Solo,” the senior agent nodded. “I take it you guys were the ones taking on THRUSH in that gun battle we heard?”

“ _Oui, monsieur._ My men have taken zee miscreants eento custody. Excep' zee ones you blow up, _naturellement_.”

“The RCMP's reputation for efficiency is well-deserved, I see.”

“ _Merci.”_ Inspector Latour's head dipped in acknowledgment. _“Oncle_ 'eadquarters een Montreal received your message las' night. Zey could not arrive een time, so zey called us. We would 'ave been 'ere sooner, but we 'ad to come all zee way aroun' zee islan'.”

“Better late than never, I always say. We're...v-very glad to see you.”

“ _Ah, mais oui._ Zee timing, she ees everyt'ing, _non_?”

“Detective Inspector,” Illya broke in, “my partner has been injected with a powerful toxin. He is in urgent need of medical care.”

“ _Bien sur.”_ Inspector Latour motioned toward the beach. “We 'ave a biplane waiting in zee cove. My orders are to fly you an' _Monsieur_ Solo wherever you wish to go.”

They brought in a stretcher, and carried Napoleon down the beach to the water, where a Zodiac ferried them out to the biplane. “We will be in Montreal by lunchtime,” Illya said as Napoleon was strapped in.

Napoleon smiled. “Leave it to you to think of lunch.”

“Someone has to.”

“Illya –”

“Yes, Napoleon?”

He lowered his voice. Thank you. For the story, I mean. For telling me about Uncle Boris...and the bone music.”

Illya shrugged. “It helped to pass the time. Shh. Rest now.”

“I always wondered why you like jazz...so much...” The hazel eyes drifted shut.

The plane lifted off into the fog, and Illya allowed his own eyes to close at last. In the moments before sleep claimed him, he heard the music of that long-ago evening once more – the plaintive wail of a trumpet, and the soft scritch of a stylus, etching the genius of Miles Davis onto the image of a dead man's lungs. Illya tasted the sour bite of Aunt Yuliya's pickles, heard the rumble of Boris' laughter, felt the nervous excitement of warm bodies pressed close. For one precious instant, he was back in that kitchen, embraced once more by the family he never knew, as he listened to the strange and beautiful music of the bones.

*/*/*/

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


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